Illogical
by SquintyEye
Summary: My LOGICAL continuation on the season finale. Contains spoilers, obviously. Things are definitely not what they seem in D.C. If you love Zack, you'll love this fic. If you're anal about your fanfic being true to the characters, I'm your author. Enjoy!
1. Acting the Part

He was clad in pajama bottoms and a white t-shirt, lying flat on his back staring, unblinkingly at the ceiling

He was clad in pajama bottoms and a white t-shirt, lying flat on his back staring, unblinkingly at the ceiling. What else was there to do? In a psych ward, your options were pretty limited. He had been committed for being an apprentice to the Master… For his calculated murder of the lobbyist. His parents had come and gone… Tears and questions he couldn't answer had left him tired. His colleagues from the Jeffersonian had come and gone… Giving him assurances they'd be back to see him soon… But, mostly from them, he just got looks of… Pity? Confusion? Reading people wasn't his thing.

Now, Zack was left with only his thoughts as companionship. Furrowing his brow, he tried to focus on his feelings. Never much of one for all things emotional, this was hard for him. Was he sad? Yes… Quite possibly. He was lonely for sure. He missed the lab and his friends there. He had grown so accustomed to the camaraderie of the "squint squad" that he truly felt that they were his family, more so than the people whose DNA he shared.

Closing his eyes, he continued to plumb the depths of his emotions. He had killed someone. Was he mad? Full of a hidden rage? No… Zack and Hodgins had once had a discussion about anger. Zack remembered punching Hodgins, but it hadn't been out of anger or even frustration. It had merely been to please his best friend because that's what the entomologist had wanted Zack to do. Frankly, the punch had hurt Zack's hand, though he would never have admitted it.

_But I stabbed someone. I killed a man for no reason other than faulty logic, _the thought jolted Zack to his very core. _I'm a murderer. _He concentrated on that statement to see if he could conjure up the memory and analyze his emotional state retrospectively. His memory was muddled. Wait… The gossamer thin thread of a memory tickled at his brain. Him holding a weapon, hitting it down into the chest of… A cloth dummy. No, no. This wasn't the memory he wanted. This was just an experiment in the lab. He remembered Hodgins and Booth teasing him for his lack of force. He could remember thinking that it was ridiculous to make sane people pretend they were stabbing someone. That memory made him frown. Sane people. Did that mean he was he insane? Why couldn't he pull up the memory of killing that man?

Sighing, Zack turned his head to survey his room. He hadn't been allowed all of his prized possessions. There was a possibility he could club an orderly over the head with his "King of the Lab" trophy… That he could fashion a shiv from the harmonica Booth had given him… That he'd give himself a debilitating case of carpal tunnel with the pocket Kama Sutra from Hodgins. _See?_ he thought wryly, _It IS possible for me to make a joke. Even if no one gets to hear that I can. _A frown creased his youthful features and his eyes continued to scan the barren room. Hanging on the wall were the drawing from Angela and his acceptance letter from Dr. Brennan. He wasn't allowed frames or nails or even thumbtacks. So, taped up, they were. These two creased pieces of paper were the only reminder that Zack had of his life outside of these heavily disinfected padded walls.

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

His hands were filled with a searing pain. Needles, knives, a mouth bristling with an inexplicable number of human canines, a gush of liquid flame, the silver bones of a skeleton piercing his flesh… All of these things conspired together to torture him.

His childlike whimpers reverberated off of walls in the alley. In front of him stood a blue door… A door he'd never seen, but he knew where it led. He was blindfolded… And yet, he knew of this door. His eyes burned with tears of pain under the rough cloth of the blindfold. Why did his hands hurt? A key! There's a key to the right of the door. With fumbling, stiff fingers he reached into the crevice for the key. His hands lacked the dexterity he was used to. Feeling clumsy and useless, he knocked something to the concrete ground. It clattered noisily. A key? No… A mandible. Scored with… Bite marks? He held it closer to his eyes to examine it in the dim light and it came to life, teeth scraping at his face... He was going to be eaten.

Dropping the bone he stepped back and stumbled over a mangled silver skeleton. Clumsily, he fell into a pitch-black chasm. He scraped his fingers painfully into the jagged walls to no avail…He was falling… Falling… Falling…

"No!" Zack sat up and looked around wildly. A slick of cold sweat coated him and he was gasping for air. There was gloom, but no darkness. And the blue door was replaced with a regulation windowed hospital door. He realized that he must've called out as he was jolted awake because he saw a burly ward attendant looking in through the reinforced window at him. Zack knew he looked wild-eyed and… Well, crazy, not to put too fine a point on it.

Forcing himself to take a deep breath, he lay back against his pillow and lifted his hands as if to examine them. Watching the man at the glass with his peripheral vision, Zack winced as he examined the tightly stretched, scarred skin. He was praying that the man would assume Zack had awoken in pain rather than in some kind of psychotic state. As the shadow at the glass moved away, he turned his hands, further scrutinizing the damage. It was no longer as extensive as some believed. Against his objections, Hodgins had actually flown in two specialists—one an orthopedic specialist, one a plastic surgeon. Thanks to some in depth surgical procedures, Zack had regained 85 dexterity in his left hand and almost as much in his right. The ligaments had been badly damaged, fused to the bone unnaturally at places. Living in the 21st century had its advantages. The plastic surgeon had been unable to prevent the scarring, but through careful salvaging of the remaining tissue and multiple skin grafts his hands were whole—if not attractive.

These were the hands of a murderer. Zack wanted to look away, to be disgusted, to **remember** what he had done, but he could not, was not, and had not. He remembered telling Booth how to find The Master. When he and Dr. Brennan had shown up at the door to his hospital room, he'd felt… Relieved. His part was almost over. Frowning, Zack wondered by he'd felt relief. He suffered from a massive case of hero worship that encompassed the both of them. Wouldn't shame have been more apropos? Or embarrassment at being caught? He was, after all, a genius. A prodigy, if you will. He was smart enough to cover his trail sufficiently. He knew exactly how big that explosion would be. The boiling point of his compounds and the ensuing blast were calculated to the fraction of a second, the enthalpy to the very degree in his mind. He had **known** that he would not walk away unscathed.

"You would be proud of me," he whispered into the darkened room. "He first approached me three months ago at a symposium on burning plasma diagnostics…" His voice trailed off. There was no one to talk to. Speaking into an empty room was irrational. Yet, he felt like he was in the midst of a recitation. His Asperger's Syndrome was characterized with a mild form of Obssessive Compulsive Disorder. That was normal and did not interfere with his life. However, once Zack had begun a recitation, he always felt compelled to complete it. It had driven his siblings insane when he was younger and would recite the periodic table, physics equations he had learned, even bits of dialogue he'd enjoyed from a TV show or a movie.

"I don't know his name. I've never known his name... But, I've been to his house. I was blindfolded when he first took me there, but I remember every turn he took and I was able to estimate a speed… So when he brought me home, I found it on a map. It's in Beddingridge. On a street called Savoy Crescent. It's a big place—almost as big as Hodgins' house, but run down. There's a flight of stairs at the back, outside. There's a blue door. It'll be locked but there's a key hidden in a crevasse to the left of the door, just above eye level."

Zack mind and heart had begun to race._ If I was blindfolded, where do these details come from? I found it on a map… So, obviously, I was never told where it was. What am I doing? I'm insane. I pled guilty. I killed that man. But, I wouldn't kill anyone. I'm not aggressive. I've never fought back, even when my family and friends said I had the right. I'm just trying to justify my insanity. I should tell a doctor that I'm rationalizing. But… I don't feel rational. I feel like I've got to play my part out. Like the time my older brothers made me tell mom that I broke her Tiffany lamp when I was little. I stuck to the story and they got away with it…_ Zack sat upright, allowing his compulsion to take over. Pulling his knees to his chest, rocking back and forth rhythmically, he continued, his voice barely above a whisper.

"You will see a hallway. If he's found someone, you'll smell meat cooking. And that's how you'll know when you're getting close. One last door… And you'll have to be fast. He'll be at the bottom of an incline in the floor. He'll have a knife. He's very fast and he's very strong."

Zack's breathing had sped up, as had his murmured speech… He waited for the rest of the dialogue to come to him. There was none. He could feel tears streaming down his cheeks as he buried his face into his knees. He wanted to wail and sob, but silent tears were all that came.

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	2. Epistemophobia

A tray of food sat uneaten at the small table in the windowless room. The smell of the cooked meat had turned Zack's stomach and he'd found himself unable to eat anything at all. Because he'd been admitted to this ward as a criminal, he had to endure a minimum of two weeks solitary confinement—his meals were to be brought into his room, the doctors would meet with him separately from the group sessions other patients had to attend, he wasn't even allowed out into the extravagantly fenced yards.

Never having been a "people person" Zack had assumed that he would be fine with the arrangement. When his friends and family had left him alone the previous night and he had felt resigned to his fate. The punishment was befitting of his crime, after all.

That was before his revelation. His epiphany. His… Nervous breakdown? He wasn't entirely certain what had happened when he woke up from the nightmare. He wanted to believe that it was a scripted recitation, that he had been trained in what to say. In fact, he was desperate to believe that perhaps he wasn't the monster he'd quietly begun to suspect while Dr. Brennan had refuted his logic—but all psychotics truly believed they were sane, did they not? Zack mentally kicked himself for never having delved into the subject of psychology. It'd all just seemed like such a soft science to him. No quantifications to make it real.

He planned to ask for a notebook or journal and a writing implement at his first chance. His thoughts were clearer now than they had been in quite some time. It wasn't like him to not have razor sharp thoughts. He remembered the humiliation he'd felt over not catching the striations on the skull of the deputy director in Max Keenan's case. He had questioned Dr. Brennan about the technique Eddison had used, but in retrospect, he had known of it… It just hadn't occurred to him to use it in that case. He had chalked it up to being unusually tired. He had even considered going to the doctor, but had decided against it. Physical exams made him vastly uncomfortable.

On autopilot, he began his regimen of sit-ups, push-ups, and leg lifts. He had to hold his hands at a very awkward angle to do the pushups without severe pain. Stretching his hamstrings, he supposed his daily run would have to wait until he was allowed into the facility's workout area in two week's time.

His run? He didn't like to run. He always got out of breath and ended up with aching lungs.

_"As a boy I wanted larger biceps until I came to a greater understanding of my intellect."_

_"It's a good thing you're here as a doctor and not as a soldier, son. I think my grandmother can bench more than you could."_

_"Move it, missy. This is the men's barrack. Oh… My bad, **Doctor** Addy!"_

The thoughts came unbidden into his mind. He had always daydreamed about sneakily working out until he was in good physical condition and finally getting the better of his brothers. Not to hurt them of course, but to surprise them and maybe gain some respect in their eyes. It never worked. He was always the skinny weird Addy boy. Then, he'd been embarrassed by the soldiers in Iraq. They all thought that he was a weakling. They hadn't been wrong, but they surely hadn't been nice about it either. At least his mom would scold his brothers when they got out of hand with him. The field officer in Iraq had goaded him right alongside his troops.

_"I'm deceptively strong."_

The phrase ricocheted about in Zack's head. He'd uttered it to Dr. Saroyan less than three weeks ago. Why had he lied? He wasn't deceptively strong. He couldn't even do… Push-ups… Correctly… But, wait… Zack's brow furrowed as he became aware of the fact that he was stretching. He **could** do push-ups. And sit-ups. He had just finished a set of 100 each. And he could run five kilometers without even being winded. But, when had he gotten himself into shape? He couldn't remember ever having worked out before, but the firmness in his quadriceps and calves told another story. He was still wiry, but there was definition to his muscles that he'd never noticed.

He felt rattled. His brain was disconnecting from his body. He was having fugues. He was in the early stages of dementia. He was crazy. Zack's entire body was trembling. The only thing he felt he had left to pride himself on was his intelligence. What good was that if his brain was turning to mush under the strain of some mental illness?

Frantically, Zack fought against his nature to self soothe. Going into the corner of the room, staring at the wall and rocking would give his brain a chance to come down from this hyper-stimulated mode, but it was also a surefire ticket for a thorazine drip or something worse. Rocking was a battle Zack had faced his whole life. It was common among those on the autistic spectrum, but largely and, admittedly, logically frowned upon by those not. Even though he was certain his medical file contained information on his neurological condition, he'd rather not test the staff with anything he could control. And he could control his less mainstream tendencies. He had for years. He just had to focus. Closing his eyes, he began to internally recite the names of the flesh-eating beetles Hodgins kept in the lab. There were hundreds, each with a name chosen by Zack. He'd always viewed them as pets. Hodgins had indulged him and had even given him a racing beetle with a "Z" painted onto its carapace, once.

His respiration and pulse slowed. His synapses quit firing as wildly as they had. Taking a controlled, calming breath, Zack opened his eyes. He could not rationalize what was happening to him. He felt that if he pushed his mind hard enough the answers were right there. The thought of having that knowledge frightened him, though. What Pandora's box would he be opening? Would the memory of stabbing a man through the heart overwhelm him? Had he partaken in the flesh feast of The Master? Had he been privy to plans to hurt his mentor and his hero and as he stood by and did nothing?

Epistemophobia. The fear of knowledge. It was on a long list of phobias Hodgins had emailed him once. That one had amused him at the time. It was so absurd, to be scared of knowledge. And now he, Dr. Zackary Uriah Addy, was an admitted epistemophobic. In fact, he was terrified of what he might know if he pushed his brain far enough.


	3. The Cover Up

**A/N : I want to thank all of you for the really sweet reviews on my story, here. I'm enjoying writing it and am so glad that I've gotten such a nice reponse to it! I have it all pretty much ready to post, though I won't be posting another chapter until Monday night. I saw the inconsistancies in the storyline and figured I might as well run with them and fix up what I thought was a LAME episode. :) **

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Hodgins looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. Angela was on the back porch drawing and Jack had taken the opportunity for a hot shower and a lengthy cry. His eyes were red-rimmed and swollen and unfortunately, the effluence of emotion had made him feel worse, not better. He knew he wasn't the only one affected by Zack's confession and subsequent commission. The lab was a dismal place to be these days. Dr. Brennan had retreated so far into logic that she might well be the next logical choice for psychiatric evaluation. Angela and Cam both were pretty near tears at any given moment. And Booth was simply avoiding them all. Which was for the best, Hodgins supposed.

He had a secret. After explaining the mineral analysis on the water used to boil the jawbone to Cam, Hodgins had made a detour on his way to the hospital to see Zack. Though his heart was leaden in his chest, he knew what he needed to do. Using the key he had to Zack's apartment, he'd let himself in. Although it made no sense to him, he knew that somehow, Zack was on the wrong side of all of this. Hodgins felt it was his job to help his friend in any way he could. That included covering up for this awful mistake.

Hodgins looked around the space occupied by his best friend. Surprisingly, Zack was a very neat housekeeper. Rarely was anything out of place in his immediate living area. His work desk and deportment were another story, but his tidiness at home made Jack's job easier.

Starting in the kitchen, Hodgins saw a large saucepot in the sink. His stomach turned as he wondered what had been boiled in it most recently. As he stepped close, he saw the remnants of Spaghetti-Os plastered to the bottom. Innocuous enough. As he plundered through the cabinets he was struck anew by the heartache he felt for his friend. Did Zack feel **that** alone? So much so that he had to seek approval from a psychotic cannibal? He'd never seemed to feel lonely. Hodgins stopped cold as he opened the last cabinet. In it was a large, half-empty bottle of scotch. Great. Now, the FBI would think that Zack-O was an alcoholic. That had to go. He felt sick to his stomach as well as his heart as he walked over and set the booze by the door. What else did they not know about Dr. Addy?

In the bathroom, Hodgins did a quick check of the clothes hamper to see if there were gory remains of a killing. Nothing. Thank God. He was pretty certain he would vomit if he found irrefutable proof that Zack was in on this. In the medicine cabinet, though, he was distressed to find a prescription bottle of anti-depressants prescribed to Zackary U. Addy. The almost full bottle of bupropion made Jack feel like crap. He really was a bad friend. He'd never known that Zack was depressed. He pocketed the pills. No one needed to add more fuel to the fire that his buddy was crazy.

After opening all of the drawers of Zack's dresser, Hodgins was about to leave, when he stopped. Zack was a young, single guy. Under any other circumstances any reading material stashed under the bed would be considered normal, but now, it would only make him out to be a pervert who killed people. Praying there was nothing that would shock him, he got on his knees and peeked under the bed. Nothing. He reached between the mattress and box springs and his fingers closed on a book. Pulling it out, he saw that it was a thin leather-bound journal. He opened to somewhere in the middle and read

"He first approached me three months ago at a symposium on burning plasma diagnostics. I don't know his name. I've never known his name. But, I've been to his house. I was blindfolded when he first took me there, but I remember every turn he took and I was able to estimate a speed. So when he brought me home, I found it on a map…"

Feeling ill, Hodgins had snapped the book shut and left for the hospital. He had managed to get there just as Zack was about to confess to Angela. A few quick taps of the morphine pump and Zack had been out.

He hadn't even told Angela that he'd known of Zack's guilt. He had racked his brain for a way to get Zack out of the mess he was in, but Dr. Brennan and Booth were too quick for him. By the time he'd gotten back to the hospital that afternoon, Caroline had been meeting with Zack about a plea bargain.

Now, standing in his own bathroom, he was weary. After saying goodbye to Zack the night before, Hodgins felt guilt for his interference combined with mourning for the innocent lab rat that he'd befriended years prior. He opened the bathroom closet and reached in behind the towels and extracted the bottle of scotch, the pills, and the journal he'd confiscated that day in Zack's apartment. He probably should dispose of the evidence. He was surprised that Zack drank alone at all, but this was a bottle of high quality scotch. It seemed like it would be a bit strong for the younger man's tastes.

Grabbing the cup he used to rinse after brushing his teeth, Hodgins poured a couple of fingers of the liquid. He figured there was no use in letting it go to waste.

"Salut, Zack-O," he said quietly, raising the cup to his reflection. As he held it to his lips he stopped short. The liquid in this cup had absolutely no odor. Scotch had a strong smell to it. He took a longer whiff and still could detect no odor in the whisky. Bringing it to his lips, he tentatively tasted it. It was clearly not alcohol, but Hodgins was unsure of what it was. Curious now, he popped the top from the prescription bottle. Rather than a tablet like he was expecting, these were large liquid filled capsules. Fairly certain that these weren't what the label touted, Hodgins' eyes widened.

"I'll be damned," he whispered. His interest was peaked. Racing into the bedroom, he dressed quickly and hurried back into the spacious bathroom. Pocketing the pill bottle and then grabbing the bottle of scotch and journal he hollered, "Ange! I have to run to the lab real quick. I… left some printouts I meant to go over tonight. I'll be back in just a little bit, K?"


	4. Markers and Madness

**A/N : Wow! I think the sheer number of hits/reviews/PMs I've gotten about this story just go to show how let down MOST people seem to be after the finale. I know that Zack is probably gone from the show (like Goodman iss, sniffle) but I obviously wasn't the only one affected. It's nice to know I'm not the only random looney toon who can't let this whole thing go. LOL thanks for validating my madness, peeps. And enjoy the story! **

**p.s. Thanks to redrider and soulsurvivor who've beta'd and brainstormed and listened to my incessant whining about all things illogical. Smooches to y'all. Mwah!**

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Blessed with an incalculably high IQ, Zack was now reduced to a ox of primary colored markers. He couldn't be trusted with a sharpened pencil or even a ballpoint pen because a crazy man like himself could turn those into skewers for unsuspecting eyeballs. He supposed he should be grateful he'd gotten fine tipped markers rather than the broad-tipped toddler version he'd bought for his youngest nieces and nephews at Christmas.

He had found out, over the course of his first full day institutionalized, how many freedoms he had taken for granted. He had to be restrained and accompanied during the times that he was outside of his room. Of course, he'd only been allowed out to go to the bathroom twice and then again when he'd showered. A staff member had watched him like a hawk each time. At random intervals, an orderly would knock on the window at the top of his door and peer in like he expected to find Zack digging a hole in the ground with his plastic spoon. When he'd asked about getting a notebook and something to write with, he'd been viewed with utmost suspicion before it was conceded that he could have a package of loose-leaf paper and felt tip markers.

Now, he used his teeth to open the package of hard-won markers. He was still a bit wary of probing into his mind, but he knew he needed to. He remembered the burning plasma diagnostics seminar. He could start there. He selected a marker to make a timeline, but he found that he couldn't hold it properly. Frustrated, he tried to write with the marker in his clumsy grip but it kept slipping from his stiff, nerve damaged fingers. Thinking back, he remembered the surgeon explaining to him the exercises he would have to do daily to have the dexterity to hold small objects like a pen or the thin pages of a newspaper or to button a shirt or tie his shoes. He had neglected to do the physical therapy, deciding that by depriving himself of his dexterity he was getting what he deserved. It had seemed rational at the time—depriving himself as punishment for his actions. Now, he viewed it as a horrible decision.

Standing up from the desk, he carefully flexed his fingers. His tendons and joints ached at the movements, his skin stretched and burned, but he persevered. He needed his hands to work as well as they could. He walked over to his bed, sat down Indian style in the middle of it and, despite the pain, continued the exercises until his lights were turned out from the hallway.

vvvvvvvvvvvvv

He was onto something. He could sense it. Hodgins bolted from the house, evidence tucked into a backpack, and drove to the Jeffersonian at well above the posted speed limits. He just had to analyze whatever it was that he'd found at Zack's place. Swiping his clearance card and barreling up the forensics platform and over to his station, he jumped and almost dropped the backpack as someone cleared their throat behind him.

"Dr. Hodgins, **what **are you doing here at this hour?" Dr. Saroyan had her hands on her hips and looked almost as startled as he felt. He knew that he had been suspected of being Gormogon. He wasn't offended. He was the conspiracy theorist. Not Zack. Actually, it would have almost made sense had it been him. He put the backpack down on his workstation and tried to look nonchalant.

"I meant to print the readouts from the mass spectrometer earlier today. I'm, uh, having kinda a hard time focusing lately," he smiled weakly.

"Aren't we all?" Cam said grimly. "Ok. I was just leaving. I had to stay late to get some paperwork done. If you would, though, could you NOT run across the platform like a lunatic?" She tried to smile at him, but there wasn't much spontaneous cheer floating around the Jeffersonian.

"Sorry about that. I want to get home to Ange. You know, she's been a little jumpy since… Well, everything."

Cam nodded and with a tight-lipped smile, she left. He listened to her heels clacking down the hallway then he grabbed a pipette from his tray of many. He removed a sample of the liquid from the bottle without taking it out of his bag. Not that anyone would blame the workers in this department if they wanted to start drinking on the job. Maybe then everyone would be less on edge. Making a slide out of the faux hooch and then one out of the contents of a capsule, he ran his tests.

Not wanting to waste time, he grabbed the printouts as they were exiting the machine. "Flunitrazepam, gamma-Hydroxybutyric acid…" He glossed over the other names, but his mind was reeling. Both of those drugs were considered hypnotic, amnestic drugs. Illegal in the U.S., they were commonly used as date rape drugs or "liquid heroine." Such drugs had a mind-altering effect—someone affected can function and not remember it. Essentially, they worked as a powerful sedative. Recreationally, they were used to bring down a serious high, like that from cocaine. Regardless, both were illegal in the U.S. The print out from the pills rattled into the tray and Hodgins grabbed it quickly.

"Steroids? Dude… What kinda crap had you gotten yourself into?" he whispered, disbelievingly. The other compounds listed on the printouts were less familiar to him. Judging by their chemical compositions, they all seemed designed for a massive neurological effect. He would have to do some research, but it seemed that maybe he hadn't known Zack at all.


	5. Be Kind Rewind?

_Velvety darkness surrounded him, so thick that it seemed palpable. He wasn't afraid, though. He felt… Ready. Above his head, an old fashioned light bulb came to life. He looked up, startled by the brightness that was infiltrating his comforting darkness. As his eyes tried to adjust to the dazzle of light, the bulb began to strobe. In the pulsating light, he could see that he was in a small coat closet. Curious. He knew that he tended to be a little claustrophobic, but he wasn't now. He was waiting. For…Ray Porter? He looked down at his hand to see a glint of metal. A knife? Raising his hand, he saw that it was his "King of the Lab" trophy. He wasn't a killer. He helped catch them, though._

_He wasn't in this place to kill, he was here to learn. He was ready, but he could only learn in the dark. Why was the light bulb overhead blinking so rapidly? His head was beginning to ache._

"_His logic is irrefutable." The syllables were drawn out, distorted, like an old record playing at half speed._

_Nodding, he reached up towards the distracting light bulb just as it exploded, sending burning sparks and stinging glass shrapnel into his hands—_

Zack's eyes opened quickly. Although the dream had been disconcerting, he wasn't startled. The pain in his hands, however, had awaken him. By pushing himself to do the physical therapy exercises countless times, he'd caused the pain in his hands to escalate from a usual dull ache to a much more piercing variety. Although his hands hurt, he could already see a difference in his dexterity. It wasn't much, but Zack was pleased that there was a quantifiable difference.

Although his mind was clearer now, he was still concerned that the clarity could be fleeting. Before the details of the dream had a chance to slip from his memory, he got up and shuffled to the desk. He gripped a marker gingerly between his thumb and index finger, uncapping it with his teeth. Dragging the tip across the paper as best he could, he made a very rough looking light bulb and scratched the letters "rx." That would have to suffice.

Now fully awake, Zack probed his memory. Lying back on the narrow bed, he focused on remembering. The explosion in the lab had happened on Monday and he had confessed that night. The doctors had insisted that he stay in the hospital for a minimum of two weeks because his burned skin would be very prone to infection. Hodgins had used that opportunity to bring in doctors who could help him. He'd had surgery on… Wednesday and then another on Friday morning. It was now the wee hours of Wednesday, two weeks out from his first surgery.

He vividly remembered Angela arguing with a man who had said that Zack wasn't allowed to have the bunch of brightly colored "Get Well" balloons she'd brought him. People were obviously afraid of his intelligence, believing he had the ability to escape or kill with mundane objects. He'd thanked Angela and told her it was OK, the brightness of the balloons made his eyes hurt anyways. She'd kissed him on the forehead and assured him that she'd be back later and that everyone wished him well.

_"Since I became the uncontested King of the Lab…"_

He remembered the explosion in the lab, but the details weren't clear. He remembered switching the monomer when he and Hodgins had first gone into the lab. He had planned to cause a small explosion because… Because… Well, he was supposed to. Hodgins had argued with him about the "King of the Lab" status and the explosion was going to be larger than he'd calculated. But… Why didn't he just use less of the explosive agent? He'd used three grams… That was entirely too much considering the delay in adding it. Had he just reduced it to one-point-two-five grams, he could have had amore manageable explosion with a less catastrophic effect. Zack furrowed his brow and looked at his stiff, reddened hands. Why hadn't he just recalculated the solvent amount?

_"Be kind… Rewind?"_

He remembered looking at the mandible and thinking that it was scored oddly. He'd held it out eagerly to Hodgins and pointed out the markings made from innumerable canines. Hodgins had asked if it was from dentures and he'd scoffed, responding that it was impossible for a human to have all canine teeth. He'd also pointed out that he was once again "King of the Lab." Hodgins had laughed and ruffled his hair and asked if the markings were made by actual teeth or by a plaster cast of sorts. Then his mind went completely blank.

He pressed harder into the abyss. Logically, he knew the memories were there, but instead a macabre whirlwind of images flooded his mind. A flickering light bulb illuminated a female cadaver—mostly stripped of soft tissue, bone visible through the ravaged musculature—the face achingly familiar, white-hot tongues of fire licking the walls of a large house—screams echoing from the windows, and a blood spattered phone booth full of bones all jostled for space in his cerebral cortex. The images, while not particularly gruesome to him, had a powerful effect on his adrenal glands. His heart was racing and his palms were damp.

Gripping the blanket with both hands, he acknowledged his terror. He clenched his teeth to keep from screaming. He fought down panic as the visions overwhelmed his psyche, but it was a losing battle. Suddenly, acutely aware of his isolation, for the first time in his life, Zack Addy slipped into darkness as he passed out.

vvvvvvvvvvvvvv

"Bones? Hey, Bones?" Booth jogged to catch up with his long-legged partner as she strode down the hall. "I tried to call you this morning, but it kept going right to your voicemail."

"I had my phone turned off, Booth. I was tired and despite my asking you not to, you called numerous times yesterday." She handed him her coffee cup and began pulling her hair up into its customary bun. Over her jeans and oxford shirt her Medico-Legal lab coat billowed. Booth could see that she'd lost weight over the past couple of weeks.

Dr. Brennan quickened her pace slightly as they neared her office. Booth sensed that she was going to try to slip in and shut the door, effectively ending any hopes he had for a conversation. His intuition was proved correct, but he was too quick for her.

"Booth, get your foot out of my door! Honestly, you're acting like a child. I don't want to talk about Zack. I don't feel betrayed. He made his choices based on… faulty logic and I know that you and Dr. Sweets think that I'm avoiding the issue, but I'm not. I just want to work and—"

Booth cleared his throat and held out her coffee. She reached out to take it and he pulled it back from her reach, gesturing at the door. Sighing, she stepped back to allow him in. As he held out the Styrofoam cup again, she snatched it and walked purposefully to her desk.

"Bones, I'm not here to talk to you about Zack."

"Good," she responded, picking up a stack of Limbo files. Opening the top one, he could see she was not going to give him the time of day as a partner or even a friend right now. Unable to effectively compartmentalize Zack and the Gormogon case, she had chosen to compartmentalize all of her emotions.

"Bones? Bo—Temperance!" he snapped his fingers in front of her face, waiting for a reaction at him using her given name. There was none. Settling into a chair in front of her desk he said, "We have a case Bones, so… Up and at 'em."

"Have the remains brought to the lab. I can examine them here," her blue eyes were avoiding his brown ones as she flipped a page in the Limbo file.

"You need to come with me. To get out… You fought me for the right to go out in the field, remember?" Booth felt like he was trying to convince Parker to take a bath. "C'mon, Bones. Wha'dya say?"

"Cam can go." Seeing him gearing up for an argument she continued, "Or if you need a forensic anthropologist, Clark Edison can assist. I have his number somewhere. I have work here," she insisted laying down her files and marching from the room.

Booth sighed. He understood that she was hurting. She had been Zack's mentor and his friend. She hadn't seen this coming and was devastated by it. Booth wasn't as logical as the squints, but he knew he wasn't the only one who couldn't find the logic that had won Zack over. He also knew that he'd give his right arm to take some of the sadness out of his partner's eyes.

Pushing himself up from the chair, he reached in his pocket and produced a small glass paperweight with a gerbera daisy in the middle. He set it carefully in the middle of the Limbo files before he left.

vvvvvvvvvvvvvv

Angela and Brennan were sitting at a table in the Jeffersonian cafeteria. It was well past lunchtime, but neither was eating. A chirping came from Angela's cell phone lying on the table.

"Hello?" she answered. "Oh, hey sweetie. Yeah, she's here. One second."

"If that's Booth I'm not in the mood to talk," Brennan hissed.

"It's Hodgins."

She picked up the phone dubiously and snapped, "Brennan."

"Dr. Brennan, you're not going to believe this. The body? The one Booth just brought in? It's missing the sternum."

"Missing the sternum? Completely?"

"Yes. Cam just confirmed that on initial inspection."

"So, Gormogon had Zack kill two people." Brennan's facial expressions fell even flatter.

"No! No, no, no! I confess that crossed my mind, too, though" Hodgins sounded relieved. "I just finished the preliminary entomology report on it. Dr. Brennan, this body is less than a week old! Zack couldn't have had anything to do with this one."

"So, there's already a new Master?" Brennan asked, wadding up her paper napkin and tossing it into her soup.

Angela's head snapped up. "What's going on, Sweetie?"

Brennan shushed her with her hand.

"I don't know," Hodgins responded. "Can you and Ange come back, like, **now**?"

"We're on our way."

vvvvvvvvv

**A/N : You really wanna review it... Don'cha? Just click the pretty button, please.**


	6. You'd be proud

**A/N : I'm a slacker. I know. I apologize!! I'll do better if I get more reviews. :D cackles Seriously, this fic has gotten so much attention. It's amazing to me. Y'all rock! Hope you enjoy!**

"I concur with your findings, Dr. Saroyan. The body is missing bone from the manubrium down through the xiphoid process. The entire sternum has been removed." Dr. Brennan removed her latex gloves with a snap and tossed them into a biohazard container before she looked up. "I know that I'm not usually one for conjecture, but it does seem to fall in line with the other Gormogon killings…" she paused and looked down at the body on the table. "But, even so, I'm not sure what that means for the case."

"Neither am I," Cam responded, her gaze fixed at the emptiness where bone should have been. "All I know is that this guy was killed less than a week ago and Gormogon and Za-- … His apprentice have been out of the picture for well over two weeks, now."

Angela had been leaning against Zack's old computer station at the edge of the platform listening to the exchange in disbelief. Now, she stood up and said, "Does this not smell fishy to you two? I mean, c'mon! **Another** Gormogon killing with Gormogon dead and his apprentice locked up? If you add that to the fact that the so-called 'apprentice' is creeped out by polka dots and lives off of macaroni and cheese I think this whole thing is just getting weirder by the minute."

With pleading brown eyes, Angela looked from doctor to doctor. "You guys **know** that Zack confessing to murder felt like a scene from the Twilight Zone, right? You're all about the logic, Bren, but that means that even you have to admit that it doesn't make sense."

"Ange, he confessed. He set up that explosion, he made the cannibal dentures, and he told Caroline that he stabbed Ray Porter through the heart," Brennan's eyes were anguished as she ticked off the facts. "Just because our hearts say that Zack is incapable of murder doesn't mean that it's true. We can't go off of feelings. We have to rely on facts and logic."

"Like Zack did?" Angela asked dubiously, crossing her arms as she leaned back against the railing.

"He made his choice," Cam snapped. "If he can live with it, so can we. I need insect activity and particulates from this body." Yanking her own surgical gloves from her hands, she dropped them onto the table and stalked off in search of Hodgins.

vvvvvvvvvvvvvv

"So, let me get this straight. You knowingly compromised my evidence and now, you're confessing this to me because..." Booth left the question hanging in the air as he stared blankly at Hodgins across the diner table.

"Dude. You're not listening to me."

"_Dude_," Booth drawled, scathingly. "I'm going to have to have you locked up for this. What the **hell **were you thinking?"

"I was thinking that Zack was in enough trouble without anything else adding fuel to the fire!" Hodgins looked imploringly at Booth. "Just let me tell you what I found and what I know about it."

"No! This is flat out ridiculous. Why would you even come to me and tell me that you did this? Why do all of you people think that you're above the law? I'm going to have to place you under arrest, Hodgins." Booth stood abruptly, his face stony, and withdrew his handcuffs. "And any of the other squints who know what you've done."

Hodgins looked up at Booth for a moment without moving. Then he stood and allowed himself to be cuffed and escorted out of the diner. Once outside, he turned to face Booth.

"I haven't told anyone else about what I found at Zack's place. Do you know why I just now chose to tell you about compromising your evidence, Booth?"

"No. Because I can't imagine there's a good reason. Keep walking."

He stood his ground and glared at the special agent. "So, a corpse minus its breastbone back in the lab… A man who's been dead less than a week and is missing bones… That doesn't peak your interest?"

"That's impossible. I shot Gormogon myself and Zack has been in lock-down for two weeks."

A slow, conspiratorial smile spread across Hodgins' bearded face. "Yup."

vvvvvvvvvvvvvv

Zack had awakened to blood curdling screams. Lying statue still with his heart racing, he listened to the mad-cat yowling for a moment before realizing it was coming from a neighboring room. Gone were the phantasms from the night before. Breathing a sigh of relief, Zack sat up as his breakfast tray was brought into the room by a mountain of a man in blue scrubs.

"Hello," he said, tentatively, swinging his legs off of the side of the bed.

The orderly whirled around, a small electronic device in hand.

Zack's brow furrowed. The orderly was holding a Taser. Surely he wouldn't get tazed for uttering a greeting? His gaze shifted downward and he folded his hands in his lap. He took a breath to explain that he wasn't dangerous, but the man was already backing out of the room, watching him cautiously.

To be on the safe side, Zack sat still for another few moments. He remembered working with commercial-grade Tasers when the Gravedigger had apprehended Hodgins and Dr. Brennan. He'd tested the highest voltages on slabs of meat, but out of curiosity, he'd given himself a minimal jolt of electricity. Although he used diminished amperage on himself, it'd still been a surprisingly painful experience.

When he felt that it was safe to move, he stood and slowly walked over to the covered tray. Although he was choosey about which foods he would eat, he had a rapid metabolism and needed to fuel his body with calories more often than most. Naomi from Paleontology had lamented his ability to eat and eat and not gain weight. He supposed that it was more beneficial to a woman to be waif-like than it was for him.

On the tray were foods that he deemed edible. He was picky about the colors of his food. Oatmeal, toast, and milk were all white and therefore palatable. Also fond of most yellow and orange foods-- the dish of cantaloupe and glass of orange juice were acceptable. The small cup of black coffee was not, however.

He didn't really care much for coffee. Hodgins had given him a caramel cappuccino from Starbucks once. He'd drunk it as not to appear ungrateful. It's made him jittery and his speech had become much more accelerated than was normal. Hodgins had advised him that caffeine consumption was highly overrated.

Sitting in a chair at the desk, Zack ate his breakfast while he looked at the light bulb he'd sketched the night before. What was it supposed to mean?

Shoving the tray filled with empty plastic dishes away, he gripped a marker carefully in his damaged right hand. He could clearly remember the dream. The flickering light bulb, the closet, the script he followed slow and drawn out…

His hand tightened on the marker as he drew a crude record player. The words had been so distorted. They reminded him of his grandfather's antique phonograph. He'd taken it apart when he was young to see how it worked. He remembered his dad telling him that he had to get it put back together because it meant a lot to granddaddy.

It hadn't been all that hard to reassemble. His father had patted him on the back and said, "Way to go, Zack! I'm so proud of you!" He'd been so pleased that he'd made his dad proud. He strove to maintain that pride in everything he did.

_"You would be proud of me." _

_"I've always been proud of you…"_

Zack frowned as he remembered Dr. Brennan's words to him in the hospital. He thrived on her approval and sought after Agent Booth's. Logically, working with Gormogon would have shattered their pride in him and being ruled by logic as he was, he was unable to reconcile this fact.

He flexed his fingers agitatedly. Now, his mind having finally slipped free from the fog of confusion, he knew that he had no memory of killing the lobbyist, macerating bones outside of the lab, maiming Dr. Brennan's skulls in Limbo, or of hacking into the surveillance cameras at the Jeffersonian. Perhaps not having the memories didn't equal innocence, but it certainly made more sense to him than choosing the path of a murderer.


	7. Duh

I am SOOOOO sorry. I never meant to let this fic go so long without updating!! There are only 3 more chapters to go, though and I promise to get them up MUCH more quickly! Thank you for sticking by me while I take forever to get this thing written-- I know it stinks to always be waiting on an update that never comes!!

Remember that reviews are inspiring and really do make fics happen SO MUCH faster. If I hit 100 reviews tomorrow, I'll stay up really late tomorrow night and get Chapter 8 out to you-- Scout's Honor! Spit in my hand, we're Mulder and Scully! I swear on a stack of Bibles. All that jazz. :)

Love y'all!

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

Booth scowled

Booth scowled. Hodgins was looking at him, his blue eyes popping with anticipation.

"Are you gonna un-handcuff me?"

Booth reached into his pocket and removed the key chain that had on it the small key to the handcuffs. He stepped nearer to Hodgins and then stopped short. "No, I'm not," he said, shoving the jangle of keys back into his trousers. "Get in the car."

"Dude, this is wrong on **so** many levels," Hodgins complained and Booth opened the door to the waiting SUV. "You know I'm right, Booth. Aren't you even going to listen to what I know?"

"Shut up," the special agent grumbled slamming the door and then sliding behind the wheel. He stared straight ahead, his knuckles white from his ferocious grip on the steering wheel.

"Gestapo," Hodgins muttered.

Booth ignored him, turning the key in the ignition then putting the car into gear.

"Where're we going?" Hodgins asked as they pulled away from the curb.

Booth exhaled a pent up breath and then responded, "We're going to see Zack."

Hodgins couldn't suppress the smile that broke out over his face. "You know I'm right, don'cha Booth? You **know** that Zack's innocent. You **know** that none of this has made sense. You even know that—"

"Didn't I say shut up?"

"Fascist," Hodgins snickered.

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

Zack was sitting on his bed, his back to the wall, staring at the ceiling counting the imperfections in the tiling when he heard the buzz of his door lock being released. He let his gaze lower to the door, expecting his dinner to have arrived early on to see Agent Booth and Hodgins standing with the orderly. His eyes widened, but he made no move to go toward them. He suspected that the orderly still had that Taser on him and he certainly had no urge to provoke him.

"Get up," the orderly commanded. "They can't stay in here with you. We're going into a common room."

Zack looked from Booth's face to Hodgins', then he stood quickly. He jammed his bare feet into the lace less shoes beside his bed and shuffled to the orderly with his hands outstretched to have them cuffed.

"Is that really necessary, man?" Hodgins asked the hulking man incredulously. "We're his friends!"

Ignoring the question, the attendant clamped the restraints onto Zack's bony wrists.

"It's OK, Hodgins. It's just how it is here." He started to leave the room when he stopped suddenly. "May I grab the papers from my desk, please?" he asked the orderly, gesturing with his head. When he got a grunt as a response, Zack quickly backtracked into the room, grabbing the sheaf of pages only to have them slip through his scarred fingers. Making a sound of frustration in his throat he bent to retrieve them.

"Can I help him?" Hodgins asked the orderly sarcastically. "Or should we just watch him try to gather all of that up by himself for a while?"

When the man shrugged his shoulders, Hodgins stepped all the way into the room and picked up the sheets of paper for his best friend.

"Thanks," Zack muttered tonelessly, his eyes on the ground.

"Buddy, we're friends, OK? You know that right?" Hodgins searched Zack's youthful face and was saddened to see even less expression than was the norm for the man.

Zack pursed his lips and then his eyes softened as he nodded. "I know that."

Hodgins grinned and ruffled Zack's hair, "Good."

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

"No luck?" Angela put down her sketchpad and asked as Cam stomped back up onto the platform.

"Where is he?" Cam demanded, her eyes narrowed at the tall artist.

"How should I know?" Angela gaped at Cam in disbelief. "I'm not exactly Hodgins' secretary."

"If he doesn't get back here **immediately**, I will fire him."

Dr. Brennan looked up in surprise from the remains she was still examining. "I don't think you should threaten to fire my team, Dr. Saroyan. Hodgins is a good worker and an incredible entomologist. Surely you don't think you could replace him on the spurt of the moment?"

"It's 'spur of the moment,' Sweetie. 'Spurt' just sounds… Well, naughty." Angela offered with a chuckle. "And Cam, he's not answering his cell phone, but I have no doubt he's doing something important."

"And why is that?" the head of forensics asked putting her hands on her hips.

"Because he wouldn't skip out on work for something that wasn't," she responded, turning her attention back to her sketch. "Duh."

Brennan looked up from the measuring tape she was holding to the femur. "She has a point there."

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

"You know I wouldn't do drugs," Zack said, flatly.

"The drugs I've asked you about have a hypnotic, psychotropic effect, Zack. They're commonly used in date-rape cases," the curly haired man explained, watching Zack's eyes for… Guilt? Fear? Anything?

With a sigh, Zack responded, "I know what they are, Hodgins. I'm vaguely familiar with the compounds you've mentioned." He turned as he felt Booth's eyes boring into him and met the older man's eyes directly. "And no, Agent Booth, I have **never** and would never rape anyone, nor have I been raped myself."

"Fine. Maybe you just bought a bottle of Scotch and it wasn't what you thought it was. I don't usually believe in coincidences, but maybe—"

Zack cut him off, "I don't drink Scotch, Agent Booth. I don't drink at all, actually, unless it's when I'm with the rest of you. I think the last time I had any kind of an alcoholic beverage was in the lab at the Christmas party. I do not purchase food or drink that I don't intend to consume as that would be a waste of my resources."

"So, you've never purchased alcohol to have at home."

"Of course not!" Zack looked as exasperated as Booth had ever seen him. "Why are you asking me about these things? Go look in my apartment, if you want."

"Have you ever been prescribed anti-depressants?"

"No, I have never been prescribed anti-depressants. The last doctor I saw was for my physical to go to Iraq. He said I was in exemplary health."

"And the last time you saw a psychiatrist?" Booth pressed.

Zack's eyes slid from the tabletop to Booth's face. "When I was discharged from the military's service for 'failure to assimilate.'"

"What happened in Iraq, Zack?" Hodgins asked quietly.

"People were dying everyday. I couldn't do anything for them. All I could do was give names to the dead. To give closure to them." Zack's voice was quiet, his gaze fixed in the distance. "There were so many bodies. I was supposed to work only during daylight hours on identifying the remains, but I wanted so badly to help those people have a proper burial. So I stayed in that tent every night, putting names to bones. The commanding officers, they told me I had to stop, that I was putting everyone in danger with the light on in that tent. But, I couldn't just stop. Those people deserved to be identified and their families deserved to be told they'd lost someone. You saw how sad Dr. Brennan was, never knowing what had happened to her family. I didn't want people to have to live their lives wondering about their sons and daughters, their fathers and mothers. I had to give them names. It's all I could do for them."

Hodgins gazed sadly at his friend. "So, you were sent home for doing your job."

"I was sent home for failing to accept orders from the commanding officer. I didn't understand why someone who was just a solider should tell me not to do my job for my country. My job was to identify those people. The President said so in my letter."

Booth stared at Zack, a mixture of respect and amusement on his handsome face. "Zack, I've got to say… You surprise me sometimes." Then, he reached out and patted Zack on the shoulder.

Zack seemed surprised… Then pleased.

"What about steroids?" Hodgins asked bluntly.

"What about them?" he asked looking puzzled.

"Have you ever taken any?"

"Certainly not," Zack responded immediately. He looked from Booth to Hodgins and back again. "I'm supposing you have a reason for asking all of these questions? And that you didn't just come to say 'hi?'"

Booth looked over at Hodgins and nodded to him.

"Zack," Hodgins began, "I went in your apartment the day of the explosion."

"What?" he looked surprised but regained his composure. "When? Why?"

"Before I came to relieve Angela from bed-duty. I had my suspicions after I pulled the particulate report from the tap water the bone was boiled in. And I did it because I'm your friend and I didn't want your apartment to be searched and you be made out to be a monster."

Zack opened his mouth to say something and then closed it again. There was confusion in his eyes, but he remained silent.

"I found a bottle of Scotch, a prescription bottle of generic Wellbutrin, and your journal. It turns out, though, that the Scotch was a chemical cocktail of the drugs I mentioned earlier and the anti-depressants were, in fact, a low dose steroid."

"In **my** apartment?"

"Yes." Booth answered. "And yet, you say you have no recollection of either."

The youthful doctor shook his head, "I don't. And, whether you believe me or not, I **am** telling the truth." He looked imploringly from face to face. "And I don't keep a journal, either."

"Brown? Leather-bound? Under your bed?" Hodgins prodded.

"I don't keep a journal," Zack repeated. "I grew up in a house with eight siblings. If you want privacy you most certainly don't leave hard evidence of your thoughts for the world to see."

Hodgins pulled the slim leather volume from his back pocket and tossed it on the table. Zack didn't even reach for it, he just looked from it back up into Hodgins face. "I don't keep a journal," he repeated.

Booth gestured to the stack of wrinkled paper on the table. "What is that?"

Zack looked at the childish drawings on the top sheet and bit his lip as he took a deep breath. "I don't know what it is, Agent Booth. But, it's important and I really need you both to help me understand it." He pushed the paper across the table to the two men as he spoke, "My mind has been incredibly dulled. It feels like I'm been having to see my thoughts through a thick fog. I'm coming out of that fog, now, but I'm scared."

"Of what?" Hodgins asked, flipping through the pages of sloppy sketches.

"I don't know," Zack admitted. "I'm having dreams that I can't quite make sense out of, I'm realizing there's a lot I can't remember about the past few months, and I'm more than a little afraid to push myself to remember." He grimaced. "The mental images that I have when I try to push my mind to remember are exceptionally terrifying."

Booth and Hodgins were both flipping through the drawings, obviously trying to take in everything he'd just told them. Zack fidgeted in his chair and wondered if they were feigning interest in what he was saying just to placate their crazy friend or if they really believed him.

Zack spoke tentatively. "Agent Booth?"

Booth looked up from the drawing he was examining.

"When I told you how to find the Master… Did it sound to you like I was in the midst of a recitation?"

Booth looked supremely uncomfortable. "Zack, you don't talk like we do. Your voice, it just kinda stays flat… You know, without the inflections and everything other people use."

Frustrated, Zack furrowed his brow and thought back over the words he'd used. "A blue door," he said. "I told you to look for a blue door, but I was blindfolded. How do I know a door is blue if I haven't seen it?"

"I assumed you'd been back to that house."

"Why would I have had to go home and find it on a map? I could have just told you that I knew where it was because I'd been there. Why be loquacious when it's unnecessary?"

"I don't know, Zack. Maybe you were bragging about your intelligence and how easy it was for you to figure out the speed and distance or whatever," Booth looked at the younger man.

"I don't brag, Agent Booth."

Hodgins suddenly picked up the journal and flipped through the pages and then began to read aloud, "I've been to his house. I was blindfolded when he first took me there, but I remember every turn he took and I was able to estimate a speed… So when he brought me home, I found it on a map…"

Booth turned to look at Hodgins in astonishment. "That's Zack's confession word for word! I remember it clearly."

"It's written here in this journal," Hodgins responded, holding it out to Booth.

Zack breathed a heavy sigh of relief and murmured, "Oh thank God," as tears found their way down his cheeks.

"What?" Hodgins asked.

"I've been thinking I might be crazy but now I know I'm not. It **was** a script. I **was** taught what to say and I did **not** kill that man. I **know** I didn't. Agent Booth, you've got to believe me."

Booth looked up from the journal that he was scanning and smiled, "You know what, kid? I do."


	8. Such a Silly Notion

Here's the next chapter. I hope you like it. We get to meet the REAL villain. Please remember, reviews make the typing happen faster! And I loooooove reviews. :) Only 2 chapters to go!

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

"Duuuuuuuuuude," Dr. Sweets drew out the monosyllabic word as soon as Hodgins and Booth finished telling him about Zack. He sat back against the padded back of the booth and waited for more information.

Booth looked at him for a moment and then said, "Well?"

Sweets looked surprised. "Well, what?"

"What does it mean? This is your 'thing!' Your job!" Booth knew he was being a tad impatient with the prodigious young man, but he was just so smug most of the time.

Steepling his fingers together, Sweets leaned forward and looked from Booth to Hodgins earnestly. "I don't have enough to go on, unfortunately. I mean, it sounds harsh, y'know? Zack always seemed all right to me. Maybe that was just the Asperger's talking, though."

"The effects of the drugs on his mind are suspect enough!" Hodgins burst out. "Then for him to recite this confession, word for word to what's in this journal… It's not right, man! I'm telling you, someone got to Zack. Someone—"

"Brainwashed him?" Sweets smiled indulgently at the bug guy.

"Dude, don't make me take Booth's gun and kill you myself."

The toothy grin vanished and Sweet cleared his throat uncomfortably, " I guess theoretically it could happen. You know, they say the more intelligent a person is the easier it is to hypnotize them—"

"Which would make Zack a prime candidate, right?" Booth asked.

"I suppose," Sweets said dubiously. "I can run the cocktail of drugs through a psychiatrist friend of mine—ask if it could prime someone's mind for post-hypnotic suggestions and the like. And, Agent Booth, you can have the handwriting in that journal analyzed through the FBI graphologist. I think her name's Emily Grant"

"It's a start… But what about these drawings? Zack said they're from his nightmares," Booth pushed the crumpled pages over the table.

"He's not much of an artist, is he?" the young doctor looked at the scratchy drawings and tried to smile winningly at the two men across the table.

"You try to draw with your damn hands burned half off and let's see what reviews your artwork gets," Hodgins snarled.

Sweets held up his hands in defense and reached for the journal. As he thumbed through the pages he asked, "Did Zack doodle a lot?"

"No… Not really. I think drawing was more or less something he didn't have time to worry with," Hodgins replied in a slightly less hostile voice.

"Well, this journal is crammed with little drawings and patterns." Dr. Sweets flipped the book around to show Booth and Hodgins. "Is that Morse code?" he asked, pointing to a dash-dot pattern along the side of one page.

Taking in the page with his big blue eyes, Hodgins responded, "No. I mean, it could be, but it doesn't say anything at all. I think maybe he was just making a border."

"You know, I know an art therapist who might can tell us if these drawings have some kinda of Jungian meaning."

Booth nodded and stood abruptly. "Find out what you can. I'll give you an hour to get back with me."

Dr. Sweets sputtered, "An hour? Agent Booth, honestly, an hour won't be enough time to—"

"It **will** be enough time because we don't have any more time to spare, Sweets. So, you might should hurry," Booth stated, jerking his head in the direction of the door.

As he watched the boyish psychologist scuttle from the diner, a grin spread across Hodgins' face, "We don't have time to spare? Before what happens, exactly?"

Booth chuckled and slid back into behind the table. "Before I get impatient." He motioned to the waitress. "Miss? Couple'a slices of pie over here? Thanks."

Shaking his head, Hodgins snickered and dug his fork into the warm slice put before him.

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

Carefully positioning his prize onto the silver skeleton, he smiled as he thought over the past few months. It had been easy to implicate Dr. Addy. The man was quite odd as it was—even his friends had been quick to believe the worst of him. That had honestly surprised him. He'd expected a fight from those working in the forensic anthropology lab. If he had known how willingly they would accept Addy's confession, he probably wouldn't have wasted his time implanting so much background. Really, it'd been too easy. He did regret, though, that he couldn't find the remnants of the chemical cocktail in the young doctor's apartment during the CSI sweep. Dr. Brennan's team, of course, hadn't been allowed to help as they could have chosen to compromise evidence—not that she would have allowed it. That woman was a stickler for justice as had been demonstrated at her father's trial.

He stepped back to admire his work and frowned slightly. Really, it was a bit frustrating to him that he'd had to start over with a new silver skeleton, but it was worth it, he supposed. He hadn't been an apprentice to the Master for long, but he had gotten a decent start on his own pièce de résistance. It was just as well. The "Master" was a lunatic. The cannibalism wasn't his basis for thinking that. No, human flesh actually was very interesting meat. It was the man's idea that a **true** apprentice would show his faithfulness to the cause by murdering the victims. Such a silly notion. Murdering with one's own hands in today's forensic climate would likely be incriminating. Why not have someone else do the "wet work" as it were? He knew that his way of thinking was revolutionary. Many, many steps above the poorly structured thoughts of the plebeians who had done this before him.

He, himself, had never **committed** a murder. He had **commissioned** them, yes, but he knew it was beneath him to actually **be** a killer. The kid from the shelter had been willing to kill Ray Porter for a few hundred bucks. Through Zack's implanted directives, the Master himself had been killed, leaving the true apprentice to become "The Master." Hell, if Zack hadn't fouled up the explosion in the lab, he would have been out of the picture as well. Yet another death that would have left his own hands free of blood.

Shaking his head at the simplicity of it all, he turned and walked up the short flight of stairs. Pausing on the landing, he turned to admire the silver skeleton. A skull cap would be nice to add to the piece soon. Dr. Addy's would have been ideal, of course, but there were far too many risks with him being in a secure psychiatric facility. No, sadly, that wouldn't do. But, perhaps Dr. Brennan's would do nicely. A faint smile twitched at his lips as he stepped out of his temple, closing the heavy door behind him.


	9. Yeah, I got that part

**A/N : Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh. Suspense. LOL I kept you waiting long enough, huh? I am expecting a LOT of reviews for this chappie as it's pretty much the culmination. There'll be one more… An epilogue of sorts. Love y'all. I'll be so sad when the REAL season starts of Bones and my story will just be AU. Pouts If you write for Bones and want to steal it as pass it off as your own… FEEL FREE! I will SO NOT COMPLAIN!**

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

As the waitress was clearing their now emptied plates and coffee cups away, Booth's phone buzzed.

Glancing at the display, he flashed an impish grin over at Hodgins. He held the phone out so the screen displaying the name "Sweets" was visible. Stifling a snicker, he answered the call with a stern, "Booth." Obviously, the young doctor wasn't in the mood for pleasantries because no other words were spoken on Booth's end of the call. His face displayed puzzlement, then the dawning recognition

That was enough for Hodgins. Something was up. He grabbed his jacket and followed Booth out the diner's doors without a word.

Once they were settled into the government issued SUV and Booth had disconnected the call, Hodgins raised his eyebrows at the agent.

"We gotta go talk to Zack again. Sweets is meeting us there with that art therapist he mentioned. Apparently, Zack makes a lot more sense when he draws than when he talks."

Hodgins, although not usually a religious man, closed his eyes and prayed silently that this nightmare was coming to a close and that logic would prevail in the case of his best friend.

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

Zack silently held his hands out to the orderly. He knew that the man disapproved of the rules being bent for a "psycho." As he clasped the restraints onto said "psycho's" wrists, he continued to grumble about it under his breath. Patients, particularly ones who were considered dangerous were only allowed visitors once per week. This was twice in one day that Zack was being brought out of confinement to speak with friends.

The boyish anthropologist wanted to point out that he and Dr. Sweets were not friends, that they had, in fact, never even spoken to one another unless it was related directly to work, but of course, he chose silence instead. With his head bowed, he shuffled behind the green scrubbed worker and only looked up when he heard Hodgins exclaim, "Buddy!"

A smile crossed Zack's face and he quickened his steps slightly. As they reached the door to the room they would be meeting in, the orderly stepped back to allow Zack to pass him and join the two men waiting for him. Already in the room were the prodigal Dr. Sweets and the art therapist Dr. Addison, who also looked very young. Eying the four visitors suspiciously, the psychiatric facility employee told them to press the buzzer should they need him. Then, with one last sneer in Zack's direction, he left the room, shutting the door firmly behind him.

"What got **his** panties in a twist?" Booth wondered aloud.

"I'm not sure, but I would imagine he's not wearing female undergarments. He seems to be the kind of man who played a lot of sports and crushes beer cans against his head. I think mostly he just thinks that I should be locked up and perhaps in a straitjacket and not conversing with sane people," Zack said, his face serious. Turning to look at Dr. Addison and Dr. Sweets who were seated at the metal table, he saw that Sweets was looking at him very oddly and Dr. Addison had covered her mouth with her hand—obviously to contain a giggle. "Oh… I guess that was more of an expression than a comment about his underwear."

Booth rolled his eyes heavenward as Hodgins snickered and cuffed Zack playfully on the shoulder. "Dude, I so miss you around the lab."

"I miss being **in** the lab. Can you get me out of here? I really don't think this is where I'm supposed to be," Zack's face looked hopeful.

"Well, let's hope so, sugar pie," Dr. Addison said tapping the folder in front of her. "Call me Libby. Hi!" With a sunny smile, she rose and extended her hand across the table to Zack. He looked at her small hand with its neatly manicured nails for a moment before he glanced self consciously down at his own reddened scarred hand before proffering it to her.

"Ouch! Bet that hurt like heck, huh?" She turned his hand over in hers, looking at damage.

"I… I… Don't really remember. But, it doesn't feel so great, now," Zack admitted, pulling his hand back from her grasp, sitting at the table and folding his hands in his lap out of her line of vision.

"Are you old enough to have a doctorate in art therapy?" Booth asked the young woman in front of him.

"No," she admitted with a playful grin. "But, I'm not old enough to have an M.D. with a specialization in psychiatry, but I have that, too. Top of my class."

"Oh my dear Lord you're one of them," Booth groaned.

"Them?"

"A squint," he said, by way of explanation.

"I don't know what that means," she admitted. Booth looked completely shell-shocked and Hodgins sniggered aloud. After looking at both Booth and Hodgins with an expression of mild curiosity for a moment, she shrugged opened the folder in front of her. In it were the sketches Zack had given the FBI agent and entomologist earlier, as well as enlarged photocopies from the journal.

"You claim that you don't keep a journal, Dr. Addy?"

"I don't," he said, feeling weary of this journal-talk.

"Is this your handwriting?"

Zack glanced at the sheet she slid in front of him and then back up at her, struggling to keep his face expressionless. "Yes… It is…" Giving up the battle, he frowned, "But… I don't remember writing it."

She shrugged, "That's OK, I just wanted to see if it was your writing."

Grudgingly, he nodded. "Yes, it is."

"You're positive?"

Again, he nodded. Closing his eyes, he crossed his arms over his chest and rocked slightly. "If I don't remember writing page after page, maybe I am insane. Maybe—"

Pressing on, she gestured to the doodles in the margins with a pen, ignoring his vocalization of his fears. "So, I can assume from similar pen stokes and pressure that you drew these also?" After a beat she spoke again, "Dr. Addy?"

Opening his eyes, looking hopeless, Zack looked at the drawings and spoke, his voice barely above a whisper, "Logically."

"Do you know what word association is, Dr. Addy?"

"Yes."

"Close your eyes for me, please. Do you mind if I call you Zack?"

"No. You can call me Zack… Everyone else usually does." The smallest flicker of a smile turned up the corner of his mouth as he closed his eyes.

"OK, Zack… I'm going to say some words and I want you to just say the first thing that comes to mind. Don't think too hard about it, OK? Just, whatever, alright?" Dr. Addison rifled through the pages and pulled out a sheet on which she'd scrawled a list of words."

"OK."

Hodgins and Booth both leaned forward, anxiously searching Zack's slack facial features for answers. Sweets leaned back in his chair and watched the two men looking at their friend. He was surprised to see how much Agent Booth really seemed to care for Zack. It made him smile to see that the special agent wasn't quite as tough as his bravado made him appear.

Libby began without looking at her paper, "Bugs?"

"Hodgins."

"Bones?"

"Dr. Brennan."

"Honor?"

"Agent Booth."

"Murder?"

"Wrong." Zack opened his eyes and frowned at Libby. "I don't think this is helping." He shoved his fingers through his shaggy hair and looked helpless.

"Shut your eyes, sugar. Trust me," she said, reaching out and putting her hand over his. "Quit thinking. I need your to relax and just speak without analyzing, OK?"

Zack's eyes strayed down to her hand over his on the table then back up into her green eyes. "Do you think I'm crazy?"

"Nope," Libby said without a moment's hesitation. "I think that these drawings were your subconscious leaving you clues. The answers to all of this are right here. I **know** they are. So, close your eyes, Zack" She pulled her hand back from his and watched his eyelids close.

"Same deal as before OK?"

"Alright."

"Scale, arpeggio, bar?"

"Music."

"A E I O U?"

"Vowels."

"Artwork?"

"Angela."

"Morse Code?"

"Telegraphic encoding."

"Record player?"

"Granddad."

"Nightmare?"

"Alone."

"Waiting?"

"Learning."

"From?"

"Don't know."

"The Master?"

"No…"

"Bones in a phone booth?"

"He'll kill Dr. Brennan and Agent Booth."

"Who will?"

"Don't know."

"House in flames?"

"Hodgins and Angela."

Libby looked down at her scrawled notes, searching for something enlightening, aware of the dubious stares of the men around her.

"Light bulb?"

"Incandescent."

"Cladduagh?"

"Friendship."

"Inventions?"

"Patents."

This wasn't going where she has thought it would. Dr. Addison looked over her paper for a moment and shook her head. Looking sadly at the three men whose eyes were open, she shrugged and shook her head slowly.

"Family?

"Love."

"Fangs?"

"Dracula."

"Needle?"

"Injection."

"Booth, Bones, Bugs, Paintbrush?"

"My friends."

"Light bulb, music, scribbles?"

"Morse code."

Libby's eyes lit up and she said, "Light bulb, Morse Code, PHONOGRAPH?"

"Edison."

"Thomas?"

"No, Clark." Zack's eyes flew open. "Clark Edison!"

"Who?" Libby looked puzzled, but Booth and Hodgins were already out of their seats and beating on the door to get out. Sweets stood quickly and pushed the buzzer to release the door.

"Clark Edison. He's a forensic anthropologist, too. He's—"

"Responsible? Yeah, I got that part."

As the door opened, Booth and Hodgins turned and looked at Dr. Addison.

"Thank you!" Hodgins gasped.

"See if you can get more info from him," Booth directed her. "And… Thanks." Turning quickly, he let the door slam shut behind him.

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

"Dr. Brennan, I can't tell you how pleased I am that you called me in on this case."

"Well, it's just as a consult, Dr. Edison, but if all goes well, you know that we have a position open in the department…" Brennan trailed off. The very idea of replacing Zack made her stomach turn.

"I understand, Dr. Brennan. And really, it's an honor that you even thought of me for this." Edison simpered. He hoped he wasn't laying it on too thick. Honestly, though, he was very pleased. This might be even easier than he'd planned… Perhaps he would even do the honors.

"Sweetie? I'm exhausted. Why don't you call it a night, too? We can catch a movie, have some wine… It would be a regular, run-of-the-mill girls' night," Angela suggested from the bottom of the platform.

"Ange, I really want to get this skeleton catalogued. With Dr. Edison helping me, I don't think it'll take too much longer. Can I call you when I'm leaving here?"

"Sure, sweetie. But, try not to take too long. I can't promise I'll save you any wine tonight." Blowing her best friend a noisy kiss, Angela strode down the corridor to the front doors of the Medico-Legal lab.

As she was pushing the door open, Booth all but knocked her down as he burst through the door, closely followed by Hodgins and Sweets.

"Where's Bones?" he hollered.

"On the platform with that kid Clark. She—"

Without letting Angela finish, Booth bolted for the forensics department, pulling his gun from its holster as he went.

"What the—" Angela started and was cut off by Hodgins.

"It's him, Ange. **He** did this. He framed Zack! He's Gormogon!"

"Edison? Son of a—" Angela turned on her heel and raced down the hallway with the psychologist and entomologist.

As they rounded the corner, Booth's voice rang out.

"Freeze! Drop it or I will shoot you and believe me, I won't mind it one damn bit."


End file.
